Of Textbooks and Temptations
by Solanum Dulcamara
Summary: Duo and Quatre are best friends and college students, struggling with life, love, and paying the rent. Yaoi.
1. Another Day, Another Duo

Standard Disclaimer: Do I look like Bandai et al. to you? That's because I'm not. I have little money, little time, and even littler patience. (yeah, I know it's not a real word) I choose to write these little stories for my own enjoyment, and hopefully yours.

Warnings: Yaoi, language, Duo's POV, AU, sarcastic humor

Pairings (so far): Walkerx2, 2+ 1

Beta: Harmonie Des Anges

A/N: This story is told from the perspectives of both Duo and Quatre depending on the chapter, and will be labeled. I have based it on my life as well as the lives of my close friends. All of the streets and university buildings are quite real. My goal is to make the characters very real and very tangible. I hope this reminds many of you of your own college experience. There are notes to explain any weirdness, especially restaurant jargon.

Of Textbooks and Temptations  
By Solanum Dulcamara

Chapter 1: Another day, another Duo

I turn right onto General Hutchison Parkway and watch as the gray haze of early morning is swallowed by the groping branches of the gnarled trees that form the less than cozy canopy along the length of the road. As I'm lulled by the blinking yellow light on the back of the truck that's doing 32 in a 45, my thoughts drift back to the conversation I had with Quatre at work last night.

I know you're not married, Duo, but you've been dating this guy since freshman year. If you aren't happy, tell him it's been fun and move on. He finished scraping his bussed plate and tossed it to dish as I placed cups in the rack above our heads.

Quat, just because the idea of being with one person for more than a few dates is enough to send you into convulsionsLong-term relationships do not give me epileptic fits. I just have a mild allergy to them. Anyway, you're the one who's grown bored with his overrated commitment.  
We washed our hands and made our way to expo. (1)

Well, I like Walker, but there's no excitementA tragedy, he sighed sarcastically as his blue-green eyes scanned the checks on the line, suddenly lighting with frustration. Where are my burgers? This is a 15 minute check! Quatre shouted across the line at the kitchen boys, who were riveted by the idea of pelting each other with kale. (2) He turned back to me, pushing his long blonde bangs out of his eyes, Bad sex?No, it's alright.Sex should never be just alright.' You'll know you're with the right person when it's mind-blowing every single time. He pulls his food from the window, wiping and adjusting the food while tossing the cooks a careless 'Bout time.

He makes everything seem so easy So you think I should just tell him? Quatre placed his plates of food back on QA, You've been with this guy for two years, and he's obviously not ringing your bells and tooting your horn, pun absolutely intended. Who knows who you've missed while you've been with him. Walk out on a limb and do something you haven't done in awhile: be single. Now, I've gotta run this food. It's slow as balls in here tonight and I'm having to kiss serious ass at the few tables I'm getting just to pay my half of our rent. Don't you have a table to check on? And with his ever matter-of-fact advice, Quatre's platinum head disappeared out the kitchen doors, arms balancing a multitude of plates.

The blinking yellow light is joined by a pair of red, and I return from my thoughts quickly enough to avoid an insurance claim before school.

A gust of wind is pushed through the crack in my window by the passing traffic on hi-way 17-92. I glare at my nonworking defroster as I untangle several strands of hair from my eyelashes. Perhaps more than a yard of hair isn't practical, but I like it, so I'm willing to make sacrifices.'

As I make my way up 17-92 and onto SR 419, a glimmer of light seeps above the trees, blinding me. Grumbling, I reach into my bag for my sunglasses. Why do I always register for such early classes? And why do Quat and I live so far away from campus? We could live at one of the five billion apartment complexes along Alafaya Trail, across the damn street from school. I'd only have to wake up two hours before class. There is that whole parking issue at UCF, but really I take awhile to primp. I'm a gay man, what do you want from me?

Half a CD later, I happily pull into a parking space, ready to walk into another anonymous lecture hall, pretending not to be the only junior in an auditorium full of giddy obnoxious freshmen. Perhaps if I actually decided what I want to do and declared a major, I'd actually be in classes with people my own age. As it is, I think I've taken every introductory course this school has to offer.

With an air of cool detachment, I make my way through the building of Health and Public Affairs, barely glancing at the walls as I search out room 119. I notice people scurrying around me, looking between watches and walls, studying schedules and campus maps, their faces light up as, by the grace of God, they happen upon the surreptitious room number plaque for which they've been looking Freshmen.

Before I have the chance to cozy myself into a little chair with folding deskette, before I even have a chance to find the damn room, arms grab me from behind, and I'm pulled against a solid chest. I freak out momentarily, until I hear a familiar voice whisper in my ear, Morning, Gorgeous. Fuck. I am so not ready to talk to him. Breathe, Duo Walker, hey. Convenient I forgot his brand-spankin'-new minor is in social services. Damn my selective memory and its sick sense of humor.

Walker has this problem: wandering hands. I'm sure with some discipline and patience, he could be conditioned not to scandalize the homophobic masses. But from the feel of things, it's not going to be any time soon. Fortunately, Houdini's got nothing on me. Stop it, Walker. You're scaring the Freshmen, I chide as I squirm from his grasp.

There is truth to my statement. The young ones who, just moments ago, were meandering all around me, now hug the walls of the not-so-wide hall as they pass. It never ceases to amaze me how people scatter like bugs when two guys just touch each other. But seriously though I'm glad they're there I don't really want him touching me. I guess he can sense as much because his normally warm face is frowning at me, What's up, Duo? I just do we have to have this discussion now?Where else do you have to be? class? That is why I'm here at school I mean.You're class doesn't start for 20 minutes.How do you know?You used the computer at my apartment to register.Maybe I changed my schedule?Without telling me? I'm hurt.

I sigh what am I supposed to do? Maybe this'll take more than 20 minutes?

He regards me analytically for several moments. I hate that. I always feel like I'm under a microscope or something. Then, he lets out a defeated sigh, Okay, later.

So, I postponed the agony. Fabulous. I can wallow in my anxiety for a little bit longer. Some scientists say that stress can increase productivity. Shit, I must be a full scale, conglomerate assembly-line.

He leans forward and kisses my forehead, whispering, Whenever you're ready. Why does he have to be so damn endearing?

I mean yeah, later. I cannot even summon full sentences. Must Get Away Now. I lean up and kiss his cheek before turning to walk down the hall. I call over my shoulder, I'll hunt you down this afternoon.

He has this grin on his face, and I know what he's thinking. Every time I say that, he says, I look forward to being your prey. Damn it. He's not saying it, but he's thinking it. Why the hell did I have to look back?

Room 119 appears before me: sanctuary. Capacity 200 I wonder if that includes the instructor? Still, not too bad; only 199 potential classmates. Last semester in Psyche, I had 450 people in my class. I felt like an ant. (3)

Entering the lecture hall, I head towards my usual seat: third row, center section, four chairs in from the left, not too close to the front or the center. I plop down and pop out a paperback. I'm rereading A Density of Souls. One of my faves, plus Stevie is so Quatre incarnate. (4)

I can hear the Freshmen scurrying around me; nervously ruffling papers, poised at their folding deskette with their brand new notebook and textbook bought only moments after registration, sitting rigid and overly eager sad, really.

I'm startled during my reading by a rare, blessed sound; the sound of a backpack falling to the floor, nonchalantly and a body slipping into the seat next to me with seasoned indifference. Hmm another non-Freshman? Intrigued, I look over discretely and notice first, a pair of oddly colored yellow sneakers. The unusual mustard footwear nearly disappears under a pair of faded jeans. Perhaps I'm feeling a bit presumptuous or I just can't help myself, but I allow my eyes to travel slowly up his body, past his black shirt that fits like a second skin, to his finely shaped lips, sharp yet delicate nose, and deep blue eyes. Seriously though, eyes shouldn't be that color they aren't just blue they're like the color of a deep hidden and possibly magical lagoon. Crayola would cream itself if they could create just one crayon that color. And it doesn't help at all that his mussed mahogany hair falls in front of those fabulous eyes in the most adorably sexy way. I am sitting next to a wet dream with a cynical half-smile. Hell yes! Time to turn on the charm oh shit I still have a boyfriend for a little while anyway, and infidelity is not my style.

He gives me one of those oh-so-covert full-body pans. Not surprising. I get it a lot and I'm well aware of the fact that I come from a friggin' awesome gene pool. I just hope I get to thank my parents for that one day, assuming, of course, that I get to meet them. And I'm not conceited, thanks. It's just a fact.

All seriousness, he meets my gaze and informs me, I'm happy to meet you. I was starting to think that my brother had lied to me.

Cryptic much? But not a bad opener, let's see where it leads. Wrong about what?Well, one of his arguments to convince me to transfer was that Florida is full of beautiful people. I had begun to think he should become a used-car salesmen until now.

A little cliché, but one look at the ultra-sincerity on this guy's face tells me it's not just a corny pick up line. I think I might have just blushed. He's definitely worth getting to know. I'm Duo, and you're too cute, but I'm sure you prefer to be called something other than cute.You are the first person that's called me cute since middle school, and you are hereby the only person allowed to say that I'm cute for the rest of time. For the record, I've been called a great number of things, some of which I dare not repeat and mostly by my brother, but most people call me Heero. I like but you're not from around here are ya?If you are referring to the atypicality of my name, you really don't have room to talk.

Shit. This time, I know that I'm blushing.

As for not being from around here, I just transferred from Ohio State. I'm not excitingly foreign, I'm from Cincinnati. My father, however, was from Japan, and I am named after his father.

Mystery of origin: solved. Ethnic background: known wait he has gorgeous blue, to-die-for eyes. If you're JapaneseI said my father was Japanese, not my mother. She was an Ohio native, and I'm a halfie. I'm dumb. Wait was?' This is kind of a tricky subject to breach. How do you ask about the potential death of someone you barely know's parents without seeming to be nosy or pry?

His voice startles me from my thoughts, You're wondering why I used the past tense in reference to my parents.

Shit again. That wasn't a question. I hope he's not pissed. How'd you know?An inquisitive crease in your brow.I'm so transparent?No, I've just seen it before.The answer is no.You were wondering if I'm offended. yeah. good. Wow. I'm batting a thousand.

They died in a car accident when I was seven. I was shifted around the Ohio State system for a year before my family adopted me, hence afore mentioned brother.

I'm dumbfounded. I can't believe he told me all of that right after meeting me. It took a lot to say I, of all people, should know. I bet he doesn't get to hear this often, That fucking sucks. I know what it must've been like.  
He just looks at me for a minute, rather blankly, before raising his eyebrow quizzically. But before he can actually open his mouth to question, the professor bustles in, all school-room enthusiasm. Thanks teach. Some of my mystery will be preserved for later.

He one-ups me again, as the professor dismisses class. In the process of stuffing my backpack, I find a folded paper in my lap. I look up in time to see him smile at me over his shoulder as he walks out the door. A note? Opening it, I read seven numbers and two words: Call me. He gave me his number? This could be interesting but I have not time to dwell on beautiful classmates or my current state of relation-shit. I have to haul ass across campus for Art History. Woo-hoo. (please note sarcasm)

TBC

Notes:  
(1) Expo: Also known as the expediter counter or QA (Quality Assurance as it is later referred to) is where food is double checked for garnish, attractiveness, and correctness before it goes out to the table. Sometimes a manager will run it, but on a slow day, all of the servers just do it themselves.  
(2) It shouldn't take more than 12 minutes for food to be ready after the order was rung in, unless it's a well done steak. Kale is a garnish, and yes, most kitchen staffs are more than willing to become completely absorbed by such inane activities.  
(3) The honest truth. I took psychology with 445 other people. It was weird and cramped.  
(4) By Christopher Rice (Anne Rice's son). If you haven't read it, do. Then you'll know what Duo's talking about.


	2. Quatre Learns to Appreciate Music

Standard Disclaimer: I don't own. I don't make any money. I am a bag lady using the facilities provided by the public library. Well, I might as well be.

Warnings: Yaoi, language, humor, AU, Quatre's POV

Pairings (so far): Walkerx2, 2+ 1, 4+ 3

Beta: Harmonie Des Anges

Archive: The Vault )

A/N: Before you can think that he's OOC, just remember that different lives can change little things about who a person is. This is all based on the University of Central Florida.

Of Textbooks and Temptations  
By Solanum Dulcamara

Chapter 2: Quatre learns to appreciate music

Cars creep around me, desperately searching for a parking spot, in a lot filled past capacity. Don't they know that nothing is available at 11:00 A.M.? They honk at me before driving around. Do I give a shit? Not at all. My happy ass is going to sit directly in font of the visual arts building until I can find someone's parking space to take. Not that I'm getting a little antsy after sitting here for 20 minutes. Every now and then, I begin to think that Duo's idea of taking early classes has merit. Then I remember that I hate early mornings. Before I get around to working up a good internal argument, I see a pleasantly smiling face exiting the building. Bingo. I roll down the window and flash her a vibrant smile. She smiles back. Now to go in for the kill, Hey! Are you leaving?

She looks surprised that I'm speaking to her. This must be her first semester. She then nods, bouncing her coppery curls.

Would you like a ride to your car? Her eyes widen and an undeniable smile graces her face. She nods emphatically and rushes to my car. Sweet girl she'll learn the technique; guaranteed parking and no effort. She introduces herself, gives directions to her car, and begins chatting amicably. I have an amazing ability to feign complete interest and attention. We pull up behind her car and she gushes her thanks as she gets out. Now all I have to do is wait for her to pull out and Ta-da: insta-parking. I'm glad Colbourn Hall is so close. (1)

While first year students annoy the hell out of Duo, they amuse the shit out of me. Seriously, every fall I'm amazed by their witless enthusiasm as they wander around the sprawling campus, hopelessly lost. Plus, they look at you like you're a god if you help them. What can I say I enjoy being admired.

As I enter Colbourn Hall, the muted sounds of a poorly tuned trumpet doing rhythmless scales seeps through the cracks of a practice room door. And they're a music major? Sick. (2) Time for music appreciation.' Isn't it funny that music related fine arts majors are required to take music appreciation?' We obviously appreciate music or we'd be engineering majors or something.

The classroom is a decently large lecture hall. Time to get lost in the sea of apathetic students. A frantically waving hand in the back of the room catches my attention. Ah Hilde. At least I know someone, and not just anyone. Hilde is my chop-my-hair-off-shorter-than-yours, ball-busting, percussionist punker, femi-nazi, male-friendly lesbian friend. You just gotta love her. Besides, her smile is more infectious than mine.

She gives me a critical look, Red? And a sweater vest?I like red, and I like sweater vests.You might as well get fag tattooed on your forehead.Your hair got shorter. Are you going for the cock-diesel G.I. Jane look?Yeah, I missed you too.

See. Great friends: the flamer and the dyke. She's more of a man than I'll ever be and whenever her mom sends her girlie' clothes, she donates to my wardrobe. Hey Hilde. Who's the professor for this class?

"Not professor. Teacher. And I heard he's a grad student.

Oh no. I hate when grad students thank that they are qualified to teach. Hilde's expression reflects my thoughts. But before I can open my shit-talking mouth, a tall, mysterious, leanly muscled specimen strolls in and randomly selects a chair.

Down Quatre.You had that look in your eye.Which look?The he'd better be gay or I'm going to convert him' look. well, is he? Hilde has the most amazing gay-dar. She can sense homosexuality in like a 40-mile radius.

The smile that she gives me cannot be described as simply evil. It is superiorly maleficent in _the_ most ill meaning way, You, my dear Quatre, are going to have to find that out on your own But if it helps, he _is_ wearing a turtle neck.Maybe he's hiding hickeys from a GIRL.Yeah, and maybe I'll join a convent and marry the church. Although he might be bi. It's tough reading him.Fabulous. Now I'm going to spend an entire semester pining after him.Bullshit. You and I both know that pining involves too much emotional involvement. You want to get in his pants. And since when has the question of sexual preference ever diverted you? Why don't you set up a study date with him or something?Since he's beautiful, and who has study dates for music appreciation? On the other hand you have a point. I've gotten some from much straighter guys than this one but not nearly as beautiful. Hilde and her never shut mouth interrupt my potentially self-depreciating thoughts.

So, I wonder where this GTA is? The natives are getting restless.Who cares. He's late, so I'm going to take advantage of this opportunity. Mustered courage check. Charm turned on check. I stand and slowly approach my unsuspecting victim. Wow! He's even hotter close up. Time to use the almost everyday, but subdued' voice. I offer, sliding into the seat next to him.

He gives me this super blank assessing look before returning a deep, 

Did I just cream my pants?! His voice is pure orgasm. Recover and continue conversation, don't you think that it's kinda weird that music majors have to take this class? I mean we obviously appreciate music.

He's quiet for a moment very pensive very sexy before suggesting, I think, perhaps, this class is designed to bring students beyond simple appreciation to a deeper understanding of the life and power in every note they play.

He's not just a musician. He's an artist a poet my kindred spirit. Sleep with him or not, I need to get to know this guy. There's obviously passion behind his cool exterior. Time for my retort, And what if my heart's been the metronome for my life and every breath a note waiting to be played?Then you and I should get together some time. SCORE!

I'm Quatre.Trowa. So, what do you play?Lots of instruments, but usually violin or piano. And you?I play a variety as well, but I have a bit of a preference for the flute.  
The flute?! How could I have even doubted this guy? He not only plays for our team, he's Duo's co-captain. Composure Quatre, So, when can we get together?I'll let you know after class. Can you excuse me for a moment?

I nod and creep back up to Hilde, triumphant smile on my face. Her smug smirk devours my expression, and I flop back in my seat, ready to dish. I don't even get to open my mouth before Hilde's eyes just about bug out of her head. It's comical, really. The only person I know with a face more expressive than hers is our mutual bestie, Duo. I don't get a chance to mock her melodrama because a deep, resonating, Good morning, class greets my ears. Very slowly, with no small amount of horror, I turn to face the front of the room, where Mr. Mystery himself is standing behind the podium. Hilde elbows my side, Hitting on the teacher! I'm proud of you, Quat!

Sweet Jesus! I can't wait to tell Duo! And I am so proven right. Trowa I mean _Mr. Barton_ has the same love for music that I do. It's more than love, really we're rather intimately involved.

As the lecture ends, _Mr. Barton_'s voice beacons, Quatre Winner, if you'd please see me. I ignore Hilde's suggestive looks as I attempt to wade through the wave of students filing out of the lecture hall.

Upon reaching the podium, he smiles and hands me a slip, I've taken the liberty of arranging an advising appointment for you. All of the information is on that paper.

Well, that took no effort. Thanks, _professor_. I'll see you then. I hope he's watching me as I sway out of the room. This is going to be a good semester, after all.

TBC  
(1) True to life. The technique of giving people a ride to their car is still in effect today. The parking lots are really that full.  
(2) Sad, but true. Such unfortunate sounds can often be heard near Colbourn Hall.


	3. Under the Old Oak Tree

Disclaimer: Don't own, blah blah blah.

Warnings: yaoi, yuri, Duo's POV, AU, language, humor, college angst

Pairings (so far): Walkerx2, 13x5, RxD, 4+ 3, 2+ 1

Beta: Harmonie Des Anges

A/N: Thanks to Shiji Fuuten, my resident whip cracker. Also, I wrote the first two chapters premarriage, and this (and the rest) after getting married. I've tried to retain the overall style and tone of the original. I hope it's enjoyed.

Of Textbooks and Temptations  
By Solanum Dulcamara

Chapter 3: Under the Old Oak Tree

That was a fabulous waste of 50 minutes. The one thing I can tell you about Art History is that it's the most artfully boring class in the history of college. I mean, I think it could be interesting if we were able to study more slides, and if the book wasn't so dry... oh, and maybe if the teacher didn't suck. She's this bitter and crusty old wannabe dictator with a chip on her shoulder from God knows when. She didn't really have much to say about the art slides, which means that I'll have to rely on the book for anything remotely resembling useful information. And if I had to hear her say, "You can look up for inspiration, and down in desperation, but never side to side," one more time, I would not have been responsible for my actions. I stomp across campus on autopilot, fuming about my first, and hopefully last, ludicrous experience with the Gonzales monster. Honestly, who the fuck gives assessment tests in Art History?! There has got to be another class I can take for this damn gen ed credit.(1) To top it all off, throughout the "scintillating" lecture, my thoughts kept straying to the Walker issue, which lead me to thinking about Captain Mysterious from philosophy. I do not need added complications in my life.

Leaving the sidewalk to cut across the grass, I take a bit of malicious pleasure in listening to the angry crunch of the blades beneath my docs. Sadist? Me? Yeah, maybe.

I look across the grassy gnoll to "the tree," our usual lunching spot, and see a figure already leaning against the trunk and perusing a textbook. Oh thank God! Fei's here. I hurry the rest of the distance to the shade of the tree and flop down practically on the dear boy. "Hold me, Fei-kins," I beseech with heavy doses of melodrama.

He calmly sets aside his book and pulls me to sit between his outstretched legs, leaning against his reassuringly solid chest. He's very indulgent, that way. I can feel the reverberations of his voice as he asks, "Walker, frosh, or teachers?"

"All of the above... everything."

He sighs sympathetically and wraps his arms tightly around me. It's a simple gesture of comfort, but it sure as hell works. I love when he's like this; all peaceful, stalwart solace. Fei (that's WuFei for the laymen) is Chinese in genetics only. Sure, it gives him his compactly muscled body, gleaming shoulder length black hair, exotically bronzed skin, and dark smoldering almond eyes... but otherwise, he's just your average American college student. Did I mention that he's gorgeous? 'Cause he is. Yeah... yeah. I've got a boyfriend. This is different. This is Fei.

I take this serene moment to unload about the crap with Walker, or noncrap, or lack of anything whatsoever, and about stupid Art History and stupid Maria Gonzales, then onto my favorite rant about homophobia, bigotry, and ignorant freshmen. I do not tell him about Heero. WuFei just listens and holds me in that Fei way, until I finally run out of steam (which can take awhile). Then he brushes my bangs out of my face, like he always does, and gives me a simple, sweet kiss; a comfort kiss; a friend kiss.

Goddammit! How does he always know exactly how to deal with me? I can feel the frustration melting out of me and so, I melt against him. Yeah... yeah. I have a boyfriend. This is different. This is Fei. We're just friends... sort of. Fei and I are the great flame that never was... never the right time or right place. But we're close... really close. It drives Walker crazy, which only adds to the appeal. He'll never understand what we share, and I think that's what bothers him the most. It's about security, comfort, safety, and a kind of unconditional, understanding love, all wrapped up in a friend shaped package. There are no questions or expectations... sort of an intimacy that transcends sex. Time to once again lament that we never were. Sigh.

"Starting without me? I'm hurt," Quatre's playful, lilting voice stirs me from my Wu-centric contemplation. Fei just raises an eyebrow, it's up to me to respond, "I figured you could catch up."

He sets his "tote" (don't ever call it anything so mundane as a "bag" in his presence) next to mine and lays down with his head pillowed on our thighs. "So, what did I miss?" he questions in that Quatre way that says, "Tell me or don't, but my dish is gonna be way better than yours."

"Duo was bitching about... well, everything." That comment earned Wu an elbow jab in the stomach, which he manfully ignored.

"Again?" Quatre whined. "Look, Duo, just break up with Mr. dull-between-the-sheets, go to a meeting of the lesbigay association, and hook up with a couple of guys. I promise it'll cure you of that monogamy thing."

"It's not that easy, Q," I try, before he interrupts.

"I'm starting to wonder if we're going to have to get you surgically removed from that malignant relationship. It's positively cancerous."

"He's right," WuFei quietly adds.

"Both of you?!" I hate being cornered, and flanked is close enough. I don't need double teaming. I'm a responsible adult and decide to say as much, only it comes out more petulantly than I would've liked, "I'm a big boy, now. I can fucking well take care of myself."

They exchange a look, before Fei plays the diplomat, "We know. We're just worried about you."

"Yeah," Quatre chimes in, "We miss the happy Duo. It's been a long time since we hung out with him, and I damn well live with you."

They have a point. I'm not happy and I know it. I want to break up with Walker, but I don't know how. I'm not trying to be ungrateful, I'm just stubborn. Before I can work my way to an appropriate thanks, a shadow looms over our shady spot and a light airy voice spills over me like a cooler of slightly melted ice, "My... my... what have we here? Queers-R-Us?"

"Oh, hey Dorothy," Quatre responds with seasoned indifference, "How's the muff diving?"

Dorothy bristles... it's not so much a change you can see in her pristine platinum and alabaster, ice queen exterior... more like a sudden drop of the temperature in the air around you.

"Listen you little cock-su..."

Uh-oh. Time to mediate, "Easy, Brows. No need to get your panties in a bunch. What Quatre was saying, in his own eloquent way is, how's your fuck buddy?" (2) Not quite as nice as I could've been, but I can't help it. She's too fun to rile up.

"Relena's not anything so base as a "fuck buddy!" We share something deep and meaningful that you fags wouldn't understand!" This doesn't phase us. We're pretty used to these kinds of comments from the ice queen.

"Whatever gets your rocks off," Quatre returns with a chuckle.

"Where is your precious goddess, anyway," I'm actually curious because Rel is everything that Dorothy is not; warmth and kindness washed in honey tones.

Dorothy sniffs disdainfully, "She's in the student council office with my cousin."

That sparks Quat's interest in a different direction. He turns to my backrest to ask, "How is your polisci grad student doing, anyway?" (3)

Fei gets this shy, content smile on his face when Quat asks. WuFei always gets like this when his boyfriend comes up in conversation. I envy that smile. No one's ever made me smile like that. Finally, Wu answers, "Treize is... good." Well, that's vague... or vaguely good, I suppose.

The ice queen, once more, sniffs disdainfully. I can't take this. "Christ, Dorothy! Who pissed in your fruit loops?" I really don't have control of my mouth sometimes.

"I don't know what he sees in you," she spits in Fei's general direction. Again, this is typical Dorothy. We are saved from having to fend her off, though.

"Retract your claws, Dorothy, and remember that boys will be boys," Treize's smooth voice interjects, as he approaches with Relena. Rel offers her usual warm greetings before snagging Dorothy's arm, and beginning to drag her away. This is my cue to move... argh, my butt fell asleep. Fei tosses me a quick smile as he stands to join Treize and the blonde squad. "I'll see you two later," he intones lightly, taking his boyfriend's hand in his, before the four head off. Quatre and I watch them go quietly for a minute, before he bursts forth in true Q style, "Am I the only single person left among us?"

I think for a minute, "Well, yeah, since Hilde started seeing that blonde chick... what's her name... Sylvia?"

"Is it just me or is this campus turning blonde en masse?"(4)

"It is. How many of them do you think are natural?" This is something I've wondered about, being a proud brunette.

"Not many. I am. Rel is..."

"What about Dorothy?"

"I actually kinda asked her once."

Asked Dorothy? About her hair? In Q fashion? This has to be good. "And how exactly did you phrase the question?"

"Something like, 'So, Dorothy, do the drapes match the curtains?'"

Priceless. I wish I could've been there. "What did she say?"

He shrugs, "She got all indignant, of course, and asked if mine did. So, I told her," he pauses to smile, "I shave."

That's so Quatre that it defies follow up statement. We lapse into silence again. So much for lunch. Quat breaks the silence again, "I met someone interesting in music app, today."

This is not news coming from Quatre. He could meet someone interesting at a funeral, but I'll indulge him, "Did you hit on him?"

He looks affronted... Quatre does the "indignant queen" very well. "Of course I did! You expected any less?"

"Not really, but I had to ask. So, did you bag him?"

"Well, we've got a study date, of sorts, set up."

A study date?! How un-Quatre. Dinner at a fancy restaurant, definitely. A movie, maybe. A club, often. But a study date... this guy must actually be interesting. "You, of all people, set up a study date?"

"Yes," he deadpans, "With my teacher."

I am speechless. He's taking the art of being Quatre to new heights. "You are a piece of work."

"Thank you."

I should have known he'd take that as a compliment... but decide, since we're having a sharing moment, "I met someone, too... in philosophy."

This gives him pause. He looks at me wearily, "You're not thinking of leaping out of one relationship and into another, are you?"

What the fu-? Oh! I see where he's coming from. "No, I'm not. He was just so... interesting." That was a lame finish if ever I heard one.

Quatre eyes me skeptically, "Interesting in an un-Walker way?"

"Very un-Walker. This guy's sex on two legs. He's a tall, refreshing glass of Tang."(5)

At last, my roommate smiles at me, "Then you need to leave your excess baggage on the luggage rack and move on, 'cause we've got some conquests."

Right. Who needs lunch? I, apparently, have a conquest.

TBC

Notes:  
(1)Gen ed: general education. The first two years of college, which include a bunch of varied classes, that have nothing to do with your major, that the university system thinks will help you be "well-rounded."  
(2)Brows is my nickname (and, as follows, Duo's) for Dorothy... I mean, look at those eyebrows. Duo just calls her this to push her buttons.  
(3)polisci: political science. These are the future presidents, senators, etc.  
(4)Real event. My second year of college, I noticed that the student population had suddenly gone blonde. This was very odd to me, as a natural blonde. My response was to dye my hair red.  
(5)Mmm... Tang. Refreshing and zesty. That's for you HDA and our rpg.


	4. Not Quite a Celebrity Sighting

Disclaimer: GW is not mine. We all know.

Warnings: AU, Quatre's POV, language, yaoi, lots of restaurant jargon, humor, college angst

Pairings (so far): Walkerx2, 13x5, RxD, 4+3, 2+1

Beta: Harmonie Des Anges

A/N: Remember that perspectives alternate between Duo and Quatre. Odds are Duo, evens are Quatre. This is based on UCF and my experiences working at Ruby Tuesday. Gratuitous notes to follow. I'm really going to try to work harder on updating, now. I've finally got the time and whatnot, so I should be posting more often... I hope. Please let me know what you think.

Of Textbooks and Temptations  
By Solanum Dulcamara

Chapter 4: Not Quite a Celebrity Sighting

Boring. Boring. BORING! Is this shift ever going to end? Closing bar is tedious... especially considering the only people who sit at a bar, in a restaurant, in the mall, on a Monday night are losers. I mean; it's easy enough because all I really have to do is tap shitty American beer, otherwise known as brewed cat piss, and listen to the customers... I mean "guests." That's why these people are here, after all; they want to listen to their own voices, so I'm the victim in their ego-fest. All I have to do is prompt with a few open-ended questions, and they're off, running at the mouth for a half hour or the rest of the night. The tips are usually good, more so if I do a lot of smiling and nodding. Well, shit. I need to re-ice the beer bath.(1) I wonder if Duo will do it for me... he should be clocking in soon. 

Speak of the devil. Here he comes, queening with Justin (our resident flamer), and wonder of wonders, he's pushing the ice bucket. "You do love me," I coo across service bar. (2)

"Only when you're behaving yourself," he smirks. He's so cute when he's sassy. I'd fuck him if we weren't such good friends. Good friends fuck buddies, right? Wrong. See, I actually care about Duo, so he's not joining the ranks of the anonymous and forgettable. Like the doll he is, he comes behind the bar to help me pour the ice. Neither of us is what you'd call advanced in the height department, so the fucking tub comes up to our armpits. (3) We can both do it alone, but it's just easier with two. Justin, with all his 5'10"-ness, leaves us to it calling, "Let Charles and me know about later." I just wish they'd let it go.

Duo looks at me with a raised eyebrow as he slips the bucket back onto its wheels. I sigh, not really wanting to elaborate on Justin's comment, but feeling obligated to do so. "Charles and Justin want me to go to Southern with them after work." (4)

As expected, my roommate frowns. "But it's Monday. It's not even college night. It'll probably be dead."

"I know. Problem is, I'm actually thinking of going with them... unless you have something better we could do." I give him my best pleading "help-me-I-need-an-excuse" look, but to my dismay, he's rolling the bucket around nervously. Damn. He's already got plans. "So, where will you be this evening?"

His face wrinkles in a rather unflattering grimace. "I'm... um... gonna talk to Walker tonight."

I'm dumbfounded, amazed, fucking speechless. Duo's finally getting rid of the ball and chain! If I believed in a god, I'd be praising him/her/it right now. My heathen self will settle instead for a gratuitous hug of my best friend. Feeling the tension in his body, I offer some trite words of encouragement (not my strong suit), "Good luck."

"Thanks. I'll need it." He straightens and starts pushing the bucket into the kitchen. This calls for a celebration! I spot Charles sauntering out to greet a table. He models and waits tables part-time, and is, therefore, incapable of simply walking. "Count me in for tonight, Charlez," I call.

"Awesome! Meet at our place, Q-muff." I'm going to kill Duo for that nickname.

After Duo's grand announcement and my RSVP, the minutes bloody drag by. At least it's 80s night, so the Musak's not bad. (5) I think I must have been lulled into a stupor by the rhythm of washing glasses, because the next thing I know Duo is in front of me stage whispering, "You've got to see what's at 304!" (6)

"What," he says, not "who." He's right. I've got to see this. I turn, in a fit of responsibility, and look at my currently empty bar and can practically see a goddamn tumbleweed roll through. Yeah, no one's going to miss me if I step out for a few. We scurry over to the twos and threes and I peer over at 304 while Duo tries to stifle giggles. Wow... this guy is really something. He's got waist length weave and is sporting the most obviously fake tan I have ever seen. His ensemble just might be worse: a lime green vest with buttons the size of silver dollars over a purple turtleneck, tucked into blue glittery pants over massive platforms... and are those red Lee press-ons! "Oh my god! It's Milli Vanilla." This comment just sends Duo into a new round of giggles, after which, he sings "Blame It on the Rain." My turn to laugh. Dammit. Now that song's going to be stuck in my head. (7)

Sure enough, Duo and I spend the rest of the night serenading each other and doing the not-so-dirty bump and grind in my deserted bar.

Out of sheer boredom, I end up helping Duo close down his station. You know you're bored when you voluntarily bissell to pass the time. (8) Just as I hand him the refill caddy, a new song starts playing. We both freeze at the opening lyrics to "Blame It on the Rain," before dissolving into laughter. "You've got to be shitting me," he wheezes, leaning over the now infamous 304 for support. I'm laughing too hard to comment. It takes awhile, but we eventually manage to pull ourselves together enough to finish cleaning and restocking his tables. It's been a weird shift.

"Do you have Sparkle?" I ask as I stow the bissell in its cubby. (9)

"Did it already. Lamps." Tedious. Bleh. I'm glad bar has less Sparkle.

He follows me to the bar and perches on a stool to count out. (10) I leave him to his server report for awhile, busying myself with wiping down the beer taps. I can't abide the silence for long, however, and have to ask, "Are you really going to give Walker the pink slip?"

He looks up from the cash he's counting, obviously nonplussed, before answering, "First, to answer your question, sort of , yes. Second, there's no pink slip involved. We're just breaking up."

"Same thing. You chose him according to a set of credentials, but found he didn't fulfill the requirements of the position."

"Well, when you put it that way..."

"He's fired." He gives me this look that's somewhere between exasperated and amused, and goes back to counting.

Assuming he's not in the mood to talk, I move on to wiping under the grates at service bar. (11) So it should be no surprise that when he suddenly speaks I nearly knock a grate clear over the counter. "So, what's your music appreciation teacher like?"

I blink at him. I hate it when he catches me off-guard (and have a running suspicion that he does it on purpose), and use the time it takes to replace the grate to gather my thoughts. "Tall... like 6'2"-ish. Medium brown hair in one of those mod geometric cuts. Really vibrant green eyes. Thin, but not too, and leanly muscled..."

"Yeah," he interrupts, "but what's he like?" 

"I want to play with him."

"That's Quatre for you."

"Duo! For the love of- Get your mind out of the gutter."

"If it weren't for the gutter my mind would be homeless... and so would yours for that matter." (12)

"We really need to get you laid. I meant play instruments... ensemble."

"Why?"

I shrug. I don't fully understand it myself, really. So, it's difficult to explain. But for Duo, I'll try, "He's more than just a hot body and a pretty face. At least, I think he is. So far, it seems he not only has a brain, but a creative and intriguing mind as well. But I don't think I'll ever really know him, until I've played with him. Although, a little of the other sort of playing wouldn't bother me a bit."

He shakes his head. "You sounded serious, at first, and for a second there, I was worried about pod people." (13)

"And well you should. If this were a cheesy, horror, B-flick, you'd be next. The queers never live." And thus, any somber mood is broken, and I can return to sarcastic apathy, hiding deeper thoughts for a time I'll be alone.

Duo disappears into the back to cash out. There are no customers, it's five till close, and the kitchen boys are already shutting down the salad bar. I suppose I could close shop, too. Wiping down. Mopping up. Tedious (is that the word of the night?). But it gets the bills paid.

After the manual labor (eww: dishpan hands), I eject my drawer, grab my tip basket, and head for the office. Beth, closing manager of the night, is on a personal call, as usual. She waves vaguely for me to do my own count out, once again as usual. I do the little "check, double check" and get her to sign the calculator slip. (14) Ah, freedom! Now to clock out and head home, so I can slut up for a night of clubbing to celebrate Duo's liberation.

TBC

1. Beer bath: a large tub filled with a variety of bottled beer, which has to be re-iced periodically as the ice melts.  
2. Service bar: the area to the side or back of a bar in a restaurant where the servers pick up the drink orders for their tables.  
3. Relative to the beer bath I worked with, this would make Quatre and Duo somewhere in the neighborhood of 5'5" give or take. I know because that's where the bath came to on me.   
4. Southern Nights (or just Southern as the natives affectionately call it) is one of the better gay clubs in Orlando.  
5. Musak: the radio stations assigned to corporate places like restaurants, stores, etc. They aren't regular radio stations, but they do have themes like "80s," "country," "hit list," and so on.  
6. Restaurant tables are numbered according to section for seating organization purposes. In this case, each row of tables is in hundred increments, so twos refer to tables designated 200 something.  
7. From beginning to end, the "Milli Vanilla" event actually occurred. Justin and I just about died. In case you don't know, it's referencing the 80s poseur group Milli Vanilli, whose one (fake) hit was "Blame It on the Rain."  
8. Bissell: a tool for cleaning carpet. You roll it over the floor and it (hopefully) picks up the crumbs and other stuff. They are usually broken from mistreatment or shoddy to begin with.  
9. Sparkle: extra chores around the restaurant specified by the day of the week. By lamps, Duo means the giant Tiffany lamps that hang over every table in the restaurant. And the bar, actually does have less sparkle than the servers (but it is just one person verses an entire floor).  
10. At the end of a shift, servers print up a server report which tracks all of their sales and the like and count out the money in their apron to pay the cash sales to the manager on duty.  
11. The grates are where drinks are actually made, so that spills seep through instead of puddling on the bar. You still have to clean under them, though.  
12. For Shiji!  
13. For HDA  
14. Cashing out for bar is slightly more complicated because you have a cash drawer to deal with. You have to make sure that the amount of money that was in the drawer at the beginning of your shift plus the amount of cash sales according to your server report equals the amount of money currently in the drawer.


	5. Old Habits Die Hard

Standard Disclaimer: Do I need to keep writing these? Not mine. No profits. Etc.

Warnings: yaoi, lime, language, general nerdiness, mild angst, Duo's POV

Beta: Harmonie Des Anges

A/N: Thank you to all who have read and especially to the reviewers. I know it's been awhile since I've updated and I'll try to be better about it. Truthfully, this will probably be the last Gundam Wing fic that I write, as I've moved on to a new fandom. I don't plan on abandoning this fic, however, and will see it through to the end. I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Of Textbooks and Temptations

by Solanum Dulcamara

Chapter 5: Old Habits Die Hard

Sometimes, I really have to wonder how I let myself get into these situations. I came over here to break up with Walker, I really did... but somehow ended up staring at the ceiling while he huffs and puffs his way to completion. Apparently, he had a long day and needed to "unwind." I suppose sex is as good a means as any for relaxing, but I prefer flannel pjs, a pint of Ben & Jerry's, and a brat pack flick, myself. Whatever floats your boat, I guess.

Not that I really could've resisted Walker. When he wants it, he wants it, and it expedites the process if I go along with it from the start... much easier and more painless for everyone. Besides, it gives me time to think about things. Like, tomorrow I've got to do the reading assignment for Philosophy. I need to stop by work to pick up my paycheck. And I can't forget to try to replace that ridiculous Art History class. Besides that I should be free. Maybe Quat and I can go shopping.

Ugh. Walker's going into full porn mode... which means I have to perform a little for effect. "Oh yeah. Mm. Ah." There. That and a few clinging grasps to his back should do it.

Yep. He's done and collapsed on me as usual. It's not remotely sexy or romantic. He's heavy and sweaty. I gently help him ease off, so I can breathe.

"Duo, do you want..." he begins a little sluggishly. He's always sleepy after sex.

"Nah. I'm good," I cut in quickly. I've never come during sex, and he usually "gives me a hand" afterward. I wonder if it's really as wonderful as they say... a during-the-act orgasm.

He's going to nap now. He'll probably wake at 11:00 PM or so, ravenously hungry. I'll go hang out with his roommate in the meantime. We'll talk later.

I dress and make my way down the hall to Zechs' room. I enter without knocking, as is the norm. Seeking refuge in my boyfriend's best friend's bedroom is pretty much my post-coital ritual. Isn't that fucked up? He's on his bed, drawing and listening to the Sneakerpimps. Without looking up, he asks, "How'd it go?"

I should've known Zechs would realize something was up. We're good friends that way. "I made a strategic retreat," I mutter, sitting in his recliner as "6 Underground" starts playing. He nods in understanding and continues sketching. Sometimes I can almost see myself dating Zechs... almost. We're definitely dorky enough for each other. Don't let his smooth as butter persona and would-be rock-star, Nelson twins looks fool you. Zechs is a 100 dyed-in-the-wool comic book/ role-playing/ sci-fi and fantasy nerd. In fact, the whole reason for his long tresses was cos-playing Legolas at the last Mega-con(1). There's an interesting story about that convention, involving two high school girls, one doing ninja rolls while stalking him, the other following the first muttering threats about a leash and muzzle. (2) Wish I could've seen it. That's also where Zechs met his girlfriend who is, apparently, just like me, if I were a female with short purple hair I've yet to meet Noin, but she sounds more like Hilde than me, to me anyway. But what the hell do I know?

Zechs and I talk while he works on his newest comic. He's made me into a super hero character named Impact, with awesome cosmic powers, like the Silver Surfer, but better. (3) His own character (he has one for himself, of course) is named Rook and has a bevy of abilities that I'm still a little foggy on. Anyway, we talk about school, movies, music, work, everything. We talk at length with little concern for subject matter in a comfortable way that I can't with Walker even after almost two years of dating. Isn't that pathetic?

The time passes quickly, too quickly for my taste, and I look up to see it's almost 11:00 with a resigned sigh. As I stand to leave, Zechs says, "You know we'll still be friends, right?"

I'm a little heartened by that, and nod as I make my way back to Walker's room.

He's in the bathroom, when I get there and I waffle over whether or not to wait till after he eats. Shit. I'm procrastinating again. He comes out of the bathroom and is as startled by my sudden presence as I am by his. Yuck. He didn't wash his hands. He's looking at me expectantly. I guess "need to talk" is written all over my face.

I sigh and start the conversation in exactly the way I promised myself not to, "We need to talk." He frowns, but I surge forward, "Have you really thought about our relationship lately? About whether it's based on mutual attraction or if it's merely a convenient habit?"

"What!" he protests, "I really like you!"

"Yeah. I like you, too. You're a cool guy and I like you, but that's where it begins and ends," I shrug unable to express my feelings or lack thereof any better.

"But what about what we just did?"

Oh dear God. I gave him the "one-last-go-for-old-time's-sake" without realizing it. How cliché am I? "We had sex, Walker, because you wanted to."

He looks confused and crestfallen, I feel like a shit. I'm really no good at breakups. Not that I have much experience. We stand there looking at each other for what feels like an eternity before he speaks again.

"So, what? Do you want to take a break? Or you need some space? Or what?"

I knew he was going to make this as painful as possible. I like Walker, I really do. We'd probably make good friends. And after a year and a half with a person, no matter the circumstances, you're rather emotionally invested in their well-being. But I'm just not willing to sacrifice my happiness for his. I guess that's how you know that this definitely isn't love. I sigh, unable to stop it, before I answer, "No... no. Slow down. What I'm trying to say is that we should... I mean... I don't... dammit... I'm more or less, breaking it off." More or less? Oh how my eloquence abandons me in times of need. Isn't that always the way?

He just kind of blinks at me and repeats "breaking it off," as if testing to see if the words taste as bad as they sound. He could've just asked me, and I would've gladly told him that they do.

Another period of painful silence passes between us and I suddenly find myself in his arms. He's holding me tighter than he ever has, in a grip that's just on the other side of uncomfortable, but not quite bone-crushing. That was unexpected, and I'm at a total loss as I wrap my arms around him in return. It takes me a minute to recognize his breathing is slightly off... a little shuddery. Well, fuck. I made him cry... I've never seen Walker cry. I'm a total ass.

Somewhere in me I wish I could summon some tears of comfort or something. But I can't. Tears would be too close to an expression of remorse or regret and I feel neither... only the utter indifference of finally making a difficult decision and having its weight lift off your shoulders. But for Walker, I can, with ease, offer soft sounds of comfort. He's strong and he'll find someone who can truly appreciate him. It's better for both of us, really.

As his breathing returns to normal, his clenching hold loosens and he steps back without making eye contact. "I should go," I suggest, fidgeting in the tension. He nods once and opens the door for me. The hallway to the front door looks especially long today. I make my way through it, absently noting that I probably won't be seeing these walls again anytime soon. As I turn the knob, he calls from his bedroom doorway, "See you around campus."

I have to smile at that. So Walker: always the optimist. "Yeah. See ya," I reply over my shoulder as I leave.

I drive back to Quat's and my place on autopilot. I don't remember a minute of the drive and am distantly glad I made it home in one piece.

I enter the apartment with a niggling sense of discomfort. Quatre is, of course, still out. It's only midnight after all. The problem is, I can't remember the last time I was in our apartment alone at night. If Quatre wasn't here, I always stayed with Walker. maybe I could call Wu... Shit. He had plans with Treize tonight. Breaking the Walker habit is going to be more difficult than I thought.

I need distraction until I can fall asleep. Right. Step one: scavenge in the pantry for comfort food. Success: Keebler Soft Batch cookies acquired. Step two: find something familiar and comfortable to watch. Scanning the DVD racks, I decide upon Gravitation. The misadventures of Schuuichi are mindless enough to provide blissful distraction. Half a bag of cookies and five episodes later, I'm ready to scrape myself off the "last year sofa." Quatre's family redecorates yearly and we get our pick of the cast-off furniture because his older sister, Iria, is cool.

After a quick cleanup, I redeposit my suddenly weary body in bed. Quatre's still not home yet, but I'm not worried. It's only around 2:00 AM after all... staying out till at least 3:00 AM is pretty much par for the course. He'll come home after breaking some boy's heart and stumble into bed. And tomorrow he'll be there with me, like always, and we'll go shopping and he'll tell me about his escapades of the night previous.

With these comforting thoughts, I let my eyes travel over my darkened room one last time. They catch on my jeans draped over the chair at my desk, or more specifically, on the folded bit of paper peeking out of the right back pocket. Heero. My stomach is struck by simultaneous warm flutter and icy ache. Anticipation? Nervousness? Dread? Crap. This is complicated, and I just broke up with Walker. I pull the comforter over my head decisively and will sleep to come.

1. Mega-con is a big nerd-fest held annually at UCF. Sci-fi, fantasy, anime, comics, you name it, they've got it.

2. Moll-kins and Shiji, you know who you are!

3. Silver Surfer: Marvel comic character created by Stan Lee and John Buscema. For more info visit: http/marvelite. 


	6. Coyote Ugly

Disclaimer: Not mine. Yadda... yadda...

Warnings: mentions of m/m relationships and sex, language, AU, Quatre's POV

A/N: Been awhile since I updated, but here's a new chapter. I'm really enjoying this side of Quatre. I hope you do, too.

Of Textbooks and Temptations  
by Solanum Dulcamara

Chapter 6: Coyote Ugly

Oh... my head... How is here light in my room when I have blackout shades? I think I may have attempted to drink all of the vodka in Orlando last night. I roll over to try to block out the imposing daylight, but encounter an obstacle. A large obstacle. A large, human-sized obstacle. A large, human-sized obstacle that is staring at me. "Who the fuck are you?" I grate irritably, hangover making each syllable resound more loudly than necessary.

His utterly average bordering on homely features fall in disappointment at my question. I can't be sure of much at the moment, but I think he's trying to scrape together his dignity. Finally, he answers, "Andy. Don't you remember?"

Why is he asking me difficult questions so early in the morning? Doesn't he realize how incredibly forgettable he is? I close my eyes in annoyance and a few vague memories of the evening previous flitter across my consciousness. I really, really need to improve my standards when drunk.

I meet his gaze as steadily as possible, considering I desperately need a cup of coffee. "Thank you for seeing me home safely. I hope you had a good time last night. Now I'm sure you've got plenty to do today, so you should be on your way."

He looks a bit dumbfounded, then scrambles awkwardly out of my bed, jarring me in a way that would make me kick him out of the bed if he weren't already gone. He appears to be dressing in a hurry, not that I'm watching. The flurry of activity stops and I can feel eyes on me, so I obligingly turn my gaze in his direction. He's chewing on his lower lip, which might be cute on someone else - he apparently has something more he'd like to say.

"Um... should I leave my number or something?"

He can't be serious. I'm not in the right frame of mind to deal with a special needs case. My voice is not it's usual lilting tenor when I finally answer. "Yeah. Sure. You can write it on the nonexistent notepad in my kitchen. Just ask my roommate for the pen with invisible ink." I don't bother to look up as he leaves. That little nonsequiter was perhaps a little bitchy even for me, but it's too early for guilt or diplomacy. I haven't yet had my coffee.

Scraping myself off my mattress, I grope along the floor for the nearest article of clothing and throw it on. A Guns and Roses t-shirt? Who the hell did I fuck that wore this? Ability to give this any real thought: zero (especially considering I'll probably never see him again).

It's way too bright in the living room when I leave my room. Duo really needs to learn to keep the blinds closed in the morning. Speak of the devil, he's peaking around the kitchen wall, "Want some eggs, Quat?"

The thought is actually quite revolting and I tell him so. He just laughs far too loudly and disappears back into the kitchen. I realize with a groan that I'm going to have to brave the scent of cooking to get to coffee. Sacrifices. He doesn't turn around from the stove when I enter, but asks, "So, who was that?"

"Who?"

"The guy that left in a hurry."

"My latest pity fuck. Never say I don't do charity."

"Oh you magnanimous philanthropist, you. Seriously, who was that?"

I want to break something when I realize we're out of coffee, but that would be too loud. I'll have to settle for orange juice. I open the fridge to further disappointment. "Adam? Alex? I can't remember. Duo, damn it. Did you drink my orange juice?"

He laughs again and I have a sudden and very immature urge to shove his braid onto one of our gas burners. Then he turns around with a glass of juice and two advil, and all is absolved. I really do love him.

"Do you have plans today?" he asks, spooning scrambled eggs onto two plates. Christ, he really does expect me to eat. PLans today? Do I? I'm feeling vaguely human again, if a bit cranky; I should be able to remember plans. I think over yesterday before the fiasco of clubbing. Back to school, blah blah blah... Hilde... no. The TA. My appointment. The day is suddenly looking up. "I've got an advising appointment."

"You have an appointment on your day off?" he slides a plate in front of me and I take a bite with Pavlovian reaction more than actual desire to eat. "It must be your allegedly gorgeous music app teacher."

"It is. He is. And I'm going to have him." Fuck the eggs, I just want the toast. My first crunching bite would be more satisfying were it not ringing in my ears. Maybe I won't eat it... but it's smeared with apricot jam. I want the jam. Maybe I can gum it. Shit! Duo's been talking to me this whole time.

"... before or after your appointment, maybe. I just need a few things."

I remember, perhaps, something about the mall. Oh! He wants to go shopping. I laugh, it's a bit restrained out of self-preservation. "So, you need to look gorgeous now that you're wild and free?"

"No. Maybe I just need some new clothes."

"Maybe you just need some clothes that will make the hottie in your philo class notice you."

He throws his crumpled up napkin at me, and being too sluggish to dodge, I get beaned in the forehead. He's lucky it's soft.

"Maybe you're right, though." He's doing the thoughtful-food-stir. I'm totally sure he can see al of the answers in the depths of his breakfast.

"Don't say it like it's a bad thing." I've resorted to dragging my finger across the toast and licking the jam off; a fantastic seduction technique to use on anyone but Duo and definitely not when I'm hungover.

"Yeah, but I don't really want to get involved with anyone right now."

What a lame phrase: 'get involved'. We're technically involved with every person with whom we regularly interact. "How many times must we discuss this? You are not 'getting involved' with him. You are having sex with him. You are absolutely, under no circumstances allowed to entangle yourself."

"But I think we've got a lot in common."

"Great. You'll have more to talk about afterward." I leave the table and dump my plate. "I've gotta take a shower and prettify myself for my appointment. We'll shop this afternoon and buy you something really hot. We can even use Daddy-dearest's platinum card. He said it was for emergencies, after all."

He perks up. Oh fuck. He's lonely and looking for a way to distract himself. I really hope my forever best friend "balls of steel" Duo Maxwell isn't going to turn into a skittish chihuahua just because his first long-term relationship ended. See, this is why long-term relationships are bad. They castrate and steal spines from even the strongest willed people. I mean, the Duo I see right now is three steps from Victorian lady. Time to start the revolution. "Call WuFei. Make him come. I'll get a hold of Rel and the Frigid Wench. We'll make a day of it." An outing - we haven't gone on one of those in awhile. "Queens' day out."

He stands, food half-eaten, "That'll be fun." He dumps his dish in the sink, which doesn't bother me because neither of us is a stickler about empty sinks. We usually just wash dishes when the mood strikes... or when we actually need something.

I see him heading for the bathroom and must intervene, "Me first, Duo. I'm the one with somewhere to be and someone to see."

TBC.


End file.
